


Baby, Maybe You're Impossible

by eiqhties



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiqhties/pseuds/eiqhties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor Walsh thinks about video reels unspooling. He things about his life, rewinding backwards. Thinks about Wes Gibbins’ kisses and how he’d still steal them all again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, Maybe You're Impossible

When Connor was sixteen, he’d found punk rock.

In retrospect, he hadn’t even really liked the music that much. However, at the time he’d been completely seduced. He’d been childishly enraptured by the dark undertones of the lyrics, by the male on male kissing, by the body glitter and the skin tight leather – and, well. Everyone has to have a few moments in life they regret, right?

Really, if he’s honest (which he so rarely is,) he only got into the scene in the hope that it might make his father angry enough to _notice_ him. With the hopes that maybe they could _talk._ Really, all he wanted was some friendly conversation with his good old dad, even if his dad wasn’t that good and the conversation wasn’t that friendly.  

Back in those days – Connor would have killed for _any_ kind of attention from his parents.

His father was a lawyer, too. He was a prosecutor. The sort of lawyer with a trail of people behind him and a list of cases he’d never lost. Consistently away from home, leaving Connor’s mother and their cleaner to look after Connor himself. Not, of course, that this was any better. His mother was a socialite. Always boozing and schmoozing with the upper class, he rarely saw her – resulting in the majority of his childhood being spent alone. He was an only child. In fact, he was frequently convinced that the only real reason his parent’s had him was just to prove that they _could_. Just to tick off another box in their All American, White Picket Fence way of life.

And so Connor, Connor was the result.

Angry, moody, sixteen year old Connor – with a dodgy looking side cut and some even dodgier leather. Angry, moody, sixteen year old Connor that had met the twenty year old Logan and never looked back.

Logan was tall, and lanky. He had light blonde hair and always wore beanies and Connor can’t remember ever seeing him without a cigarette hanging lazily out of his mouth. Logan wore jeans that were painted on, and tank tops that showed off the fact that he still had muscles. He only smiled out of the left side of his mouth, and Connor had thought he’d found it all. Connor had looked at the way Logan played a guitar and sworn he was in love, and sometimes Connor still felt like he was picking up the pieces.

Isn’t he such a fabulous cliché? The rich, white, queer kid whose daddy never even noticed him enough to not love him. The stupid teenager that swore love was when they sometimes smiled at you.

Connor sometimes loathes how predictable he is.

*

When Connor started sleeping with Aiden, he swore he wasn’t going to get too attached. Tall, dark and handsome Aiden, with his ten year plan and his straight white teeth.

Connor would never admit it, but he’s the sort of person that falls hard and fast. He’s the sort of person that’s never quite figured out how not to make things hurt. So when Aiden says, “We went to boarding school together.” And doesn’t say anything else, Connor smiles with teeth bared and pretends it’s like water rolling off his back.

It’s not. Not really. It’s more like salt and ice, sticking until it burns the skin right off. So Connor taunts, makes snide remakes, Connor does what he does best and verbally incinerates Michaela and her jealousy issues. It doesn’t even occur to him that she might not _know_ until they’re sitting at the bar and she’s looking at him with shock as he talks about _engagement rings._

And, fuck, he wants to be a dick about it, wants to shove it in her face that he had that he was there before she was. She may have the ring, and the life, and the perfect household and Aiden’s ten year plan, but Connor was still _first_. Connor still _won._ Really, if there was one thing that Connor’s father taught him, if there was _one thing_ that Connor got out of his entire, miserable existence with his family; it’s that there’s nothing like the thrill of winning. Nothing like the way it feels to slide into your seat and know that you’ve beaten them, know that you’ve torn them apart with your teeth and your hands.

Connor may have lost the war, but at least he won the battle.

*

Connor’s first impression of Wesley Gibbins is when Annalise asks him a question and he can’t answer. So Connor scoffs.

 He scoffs for a plethora of reasons, none of them good enough.

He scoffs because Wes is already behind in class, because he’s shy, because he’s tall and clever and he came in off the _wait list_. He scoffs because his father might not love him, but at least they’re paying tuition fees. He scoffs, because he’s so sickly, insanely, _jealous._

He scoffs because Wes is tall and gorgeous and Annalise’s favourite, and Connor doesn’t really know what else to do.

*

Wes Gibbins is one of those people that mothers love. The sort of person that even Annalise Keating softens for. Wes Gibbins is the kind of person that wins a trophy for breaking all the rules, because he has some kind of saviour complex that means he falls for the skinny girls with the bambi eyes and the tragic pasts.

Connor has a moment of madness in which he wonders if his past is tragic enough to warrant notice. A moment where he wonders if he’s broken enough for Wes to try and save.

Then he has a moment where he wonders if he’s even saveable.

Really, its better he doesn’t think about these things.

*

And a boy plummets out of a window and all Connor can think about is how he understood the desperation in the style of his kisses, but he’d been too caught up in the glory of the fact he was winning. He was _succeeding_. Connor hears the sound of a crunch on the pavement and all he can think about is how that’s probably the same sound as his heart smashing, and without even thinking about it he makes a shitty joke and goes and gets drunk.

He turns up at Oliver’s place, first. Only Oliver hears the audio recording, here’s how Connor still plays people like a pro and kicks him out of the apartment without listening to Connor’s half-hearted explanation. And, really, what is there to explain?

So Connor ends up banging on the door of Wesley Gibbins’ apartment at two AM, and when Wes opens the door – Connor kisses him without a second thought. Connor slides his hands into his hair and yanks his mouth down and Wes doesn’t push him away, Wes meets each kiss with one a little harder and Connor grins into it, thinks about how this is what falling apart is like.

*

His mother calls him and asks how studying is going. He spends the first two minutes trying to figure out if she’s called the right number.

“Connor, baby,” His mum says, and he shuts his eyes and melts into himself and thinks about how maybe this is what feeling loved is like. Maybe this is what it feels like to melt like butter on bread. To float like driftwood at sea. Maybe this is peace.

“How’s medicine going?” She asks, “Are you successful yet?”

“I’m studying law.” He says, sitting up again. His mother pauses.

“Are you sure, darling? I don't know if you could get anywhere, there. I mean, you know you're never going to be as successful as your daddy, baby.”

Connor doesn’t reply. He hangs up the phone, throws it across the room and crawls into bed. Maybe Connor’s always been one of those people that was impossible to love.

*

Wes never mentions that time Connor slept with him, and Connor follows his lead. He catches Wes looking at him sometimes, though, and it’s not the way that he looks at Rebecca. It’s more calculating. More interested. Wes starts to look at him like he could tear him apart with his stupidly nice hands, and Connor thinks that he’s starting to realise why Annalise and Wes have always got on so well.

But Wes still has a thing for girls that line their eyes with black, girls that choke on apologies and act like listening to anything but alternative music makes you less of a person. And Connor doesn’t hate Rebecca Sutter. He doesn’t begrudge her the whole, “Help me; I’ll never need saving but I’ll always need loving” vibe that she’s doused herself in. Connor doesn't begrudge her that role, because God knows that Connor's been playing that role his entire life. 

Connor just doesn’t understand why Wes thinks he should do everything for this girl, and nothing for him. 

Connor just doesn't understand why this girl gets everything and he's still getting nothing. 

*

The next time that Connor sleeps with Wes, it’s Wes that comes to him. And it’s strange, he thinks, how ages ago all of them figured out where the others lived, “just in case,” but he’d be hard pushed to be able to tell someone defining interests about the others. They’re not friends. They don’t care about each other, and yet here Wes is, in a flurry of rage and anger and a hoody over his head, and Connor shoves it down and pulls him in and leads him straight to the bed – because he’s not going to question why he’s here. He’s not going to be the one that acts like he cares.

Even though he does, he cares so _fucking_ much, he’s just always been the best at hiding it.

Wes is interesting. Wes is someone that could tear the world apart with his bare hands. Connor wants those hands on his hips, on his ass. Connor wants to fall apart in a controlled enough way that he can get up from it again. Connor is a child and he put all his money on a foolish gamble, and this is Wes, here as a loan shark. Here with sharp teeth and the smell of blood in the water. Here to collect.

This is carnal. This is devolution. This is young adults falling apart. Pulling each other apart. This is the two of them reverting back to their primal state, and Connor wants to bite so hard that he tastes blood. Connor wants to lie down and give it all up. Connor wants to dominate. Connor wants to submit. Connor wants to  _break_ Wes. Connor wants to fix him. 

Connor wants to finish their destruction and go to sleep on top of each other. He wants to make coffee together in the morning. He wants breakfast in bed, and hands in his. He wants to stop worrying and just _kiss_ Wes. Slow everything down until there's nothing but softness. 

He doesn’t.

They don’t.

*

Annalise tells them that there’s a man on death row, and Connor watches Asher’s world crumble a little around him. Connor wants to sink his teeth into it, grin through it, tell Asher that this is what it feels like when the world doesn’t always love you. This is what it feels like when you’re still cloudy eyed and dreaming of ideals. This is the fall.

Connor doesn’t. Doesn’t even say anything when the verdict is read out and Asher is crying. Doesn’t say anything when he feels Wes swing just a hair closer to him. Just stands there. Breathes. They saved a man’s life today, and Connor takes a moment to appreciate that this is why he loves what he does. This is why he’s good. This is why he’s here.

When Wes turns up at his door later that night, the kisses aren’t as harsh this time. They’re unloading. Unwinding. This is what it feels like to surrender to someone as they surrender to you. This is what it feels like to have been in the desert and to take a drink of water.

Connor thinks of Oliver, hopes he’s doing okay, hopes he finds someone better than Connor, better than this. Better than breaking. Because even though these kisses feel softer, they still taste like slow pools of blood. Even though these kisses are beautiful, they’re beautiful like the shroud over the face of a mourner. Even those these kisses are kisses, there's still a little bit of teeth in each one. 

There is still violence in the water, and Wes and Connor were still born to be sharks.

*

There is a dead body on the ground.

Connor waits for Wes’ hand in his, it doesn’t come.

There is a dead body on the ground. 

He lies down beside the dead body and thinks about how maybe he’s the kind of person that it’s impossible to love. Staring into the eyes of Annalise Keating’s dead husband, Connor Walsh thinks about video reels unspooling. He things about his life, rewinding backwards. Thinks about Wes Gibbins’ kisses and how he’d still steal them all again. He’d claim them all again because he has nothing else _to_ claim.

There is a dead body on the ground.

Connor laughs, because if he does anything else, there might just end up being two.

There is a dead body on the ground, and he helped put it there. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Me and my friend had this headcanon that Connor is totally a fragile lil soul, who lived in a Big House with No Love and had parents that never even realised he was gay, never mind accepted it. Then the show went and gave me canonical daddy issues and I wept with joy. 
> 
> Also, I'm sorry that this is so disgustingly depressing? I wanted to make it happy, honest to god, I did - only I wrote it really close to the shows canon, and I couldn't quite figure out a way to make them happy together? So, there you go. I'm writing a happy one, I promise! (Tbh I think that the only reason this one is so sad is because there's no Asher Millstone in it, lmao.) 
> 
> Finally, I don't have a beta, so any mistakes are my own and please correct me. Much love.


End file.
